


After the Storm

by Sossity



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Death, Gen, Wordcount: 100-500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sossity/pseuds/Sossity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser restlessly paced the length of his cabin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, happy Father's Day?

Fraser restlessly paced the length of the cabin. He'd rescued three men on his patrol who'd managed to get lost and helped one poor young woman give birth in "Diarrhoea" Dan Fleming's outhouse before the storm had passed. Now he was trapped here, waiting. Where _was_ he? He should have been back by now. The bloody-minded fool would just _have_ to go chasing down some criminal in the middle of the worst blizzard in three years, wouldn't he? He'd always been reckless, acting as though nothing could possibly hurt him, but that Muldoon business had just served to make him even more determined to right every wrong. Fraser felt like calling it in to the station, but what would he say? He was ashamed to admit he hadn't been paying attention when the boy had come to him asking for advice. Something about frozen caribou? Maybe he was bringing them blankets? Bah, who knows?

He was just about to grab his coat and go out after him when the cabin door slammed open. That Ray Kowalski was standing in the doorway, looking about ready to keel over. Fraser forgot everything else, grabbed his elbow and led him to the chair by the fire.

He grabbed the kettle and his tea box. "What's the matter?" he snapped. "Out with it!"

"He's...he's...oh, God, he's..." Fraser had forgotten about the Yank and his speech problems. He stared out at the snow, wondering how to drag it out of him.

A figure stepped in front of the open door. Fraser squinted. His old eyes weren't what they used to be.

The boy--man--stepped in and took off his hat. Not a flake of snow on him, not a hair out of place.

Ray finally got his tongue unwrapped and snatched at Fraser's wrist, ignoring the figure by the door. "He's dead, he's dead, oh God, he's gone..." he moaned like some half-dead animal.

Fraser couldn't look away. He felt frail, and old, and like someone had stabbed him through the heart. "Benton," he snapped, trying to change the world back into a place that made sense, "what the hell are you doing in your dress uniform? It must be thirty below out there!"

"Hello, Dad," said the ghost.


End file.
